


You're A Criminal (As Long As You're Mine)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter and Snarking at each other, Barry has the patience of a saint, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Episode s02e09 Running to Stand Still, Hurt/Comfort, Len being a terrible patient, Lisa ships it, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Episode: s02e03 Family of Rogues, Scars from past abuse, Self-Loathing, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Two broken people fitting their broken pieces together, prison riots, prison visits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25371964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: By the third visit, they've officially established a pattern.____________________________________________________________Following the death of Lewis Snart and his son's incarceration, Barry copes with the feeling of injustice by paying his nemesis a visit behind bars.  Before long, a couple random visits has turned into something more.  Something much more than either probably expected.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Leonard Snart, Barry Allen & Lisa Snart (friendship), Barry Allen/Leonard Snart, Caitlin Snow/Mick Rory (background/implied), Cisco Ramon/Lisa Snart (background), ColdFlash, GoldenVibe (background) - Relationship, KillerWave (background/implied), Leonard Snart & Lisa Snart
Comments: 20
Kudos: 322





	You're A Criminal (As Long As You're Mine)

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: this is almost 8K words of self-indulgence, working out my various frustrations with the named episodes by projecting said frustrations onto Barry's character and hoping it didn't come out completely OOC.
> 
> Rating is mostly for mild profanity and heavily suggestive content. No smut on this one, kids, but don't worry - I've got plenty more of that in my growing collection of ColdFlash obsession. ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The first time, Barry can admit, is mostly to assuage his own guilt but also because he’s pissed and needs someone who will appreciate that he’s pissed.

Granted, he knows Snart will appreciate it because Barry’s agitated state subsequently provides a massive ego stroke, but whatever.

“Not that a guy doesn’t take kindly to such effort on his behalf,” leave it to Snart, by the way, to look like he’s on vacation while locked inside an six-by-eight concrete cell: hands folded behind his head, one leg kicked over the other, and stretched across the cot like he’s waiting for a martini, “but honestly, Barry… _what_ did you think would happen? Protesters filling the streets, mandating action until the D.A. caved?”

Barry shoots a mildly annoyed look – though, were he forced to be honest, he’s mostly annoyed at how relaxed the man looks than anything coming out of his mouth – and adjusts his exceptionally uncomfortable ‘seat’ against the wall, “It’s bullshit. Plain and simple. I thought someone might have the brain capacity to realize that.”

“First of all, mind your language,” Barry opens his mouth to respond and never gets the chance, “second…touching. Truly. But at this point,” Snart lets his eyes wander over the cell for a lazy beat, “I’m pretty sure they have my cell on permanent reserve here.”

“And I’m pretty sure you committed an act of public service.” Barry mutters, not caring if he sounds mildly (see also: extremely) juvenile right now, and fully drops to the floor because he can’t take the wall-squats anymore, “You want my key to the city?”

“So I can give it to Mick to burn?”

“More than I’m doing with it.” He actually gets half a smirk out of the older man for that little quip, which Barry officially declares as his personal victory for the night.

“Alright, all joking aside,” Snart finally sits up, swinging his legs off the edge, and props elbows along his thighs to face Barry with an oddly intent gaze, “you gave it a good shot at being my white knight. Appreciate it. But if you want to make yourself actually useful, just keep an eye on Lisa.”

“Thought she would be breaking you out by tomorrow night.”

Snart smirks again, looking almost pleased with Barry’s deadpan, and shrugs, “Long-term goal. You forget, she has to figure out how this,” he motions vaguely outside the cell, which Barry interprets as referencing the metahuman wing on the whole, “works. The devil is, after all, in the details.”

“So you’re asking me to keep an eye on your sister while she studies the new wing at Iron Heights for the single purpose of breaking you out down the road?”

Snart doesn’t answer, but it was a rhetorical question anyway.

***

“You forget something the other night?”

Barry should be a little annoyed that Snart just picks up on his presence so quickly, but then again…if his arrival and departure is perpetually marked by a rush of wind and crackle of lightning, it is pretty obvious. He shoves his cowl back and runs a hand through his hair, “Was in the neighborhood.”

“In the middle of nowhere? You running off a coffee buzz?”

“Fun fact – caffeine and alcohol have something in common.” Barry perches as neatly as he can on the window ledge and braces a leg on the wall for extra balance, “They no longer work on me. At all.”

He pauses, then lets himself smirk, “Besides…you act like I interrupted a hot date.”

“I will have you know, I keep a very full social calendar.” The deadpan is pretty impressive, always has been, and Barry is proud to say he’s finally reached the point where Snart is less of an aggravating pain in the ass and more mildly amusing when he’s being sarcastic, “Wake up for count. Pretend to eat breakfast. Go in the yard. Ten-minute shower. Pretend to eat lunch. Back in the yard. Stare at the wall.”

“It’s a wonder you can keep track of everything.”

Snart finally does him the honor of cracking open an eye, though otherwise not moving from his reclining position on the bed, “So…you were in the neighborhood, got bored, and decided to break in to Iron Heights. I expect it would be too much to hope you’re here to take me with you when you head out, right?”

“And deprive your sister of the fruits of such extensive labor? What sort of heartless animal do you take me for?”

“Brat.”

“Pretentious jackass.”

***

By the third time, they’ve established a pattern. Barry really should be worried about himself.

Instead, he’s looking forward to the nightly excursions – though how the guards haven’t caught on to Snart’s late-night visitor is beyond comprehension – to the point that he may or may not have it marked on his internal calendar. He’s making the cops pull their weight now – and earning some uncomfortable looks from Cisco and Caitlin for it.

“You could be bothered to bring a cake with a file in it.” Tonight, he finds Snart doing pull-ups in his cell, and Barry is mildly surprised that the man doesn’t seem to care how the undershirt shows off more of his chest and arms than he’s ever displayed before. It implies a level of trust which warms Barry’s heart – until he puts the fire out, unwilling to read too much into a situation that could easily be chucked back in his face.

“Seriously? A cake with a file in it? You don’t even like cake.”

“You’re right. I do hate cake.” Snart holds himself in position for a minute, seemingly counting seconds under his breath, before he drops back to the floor with a low grunt, “But the thought would be nice.”

“I’ve already tried my hand at baking.” Barry shakes his head, “Trust me…I’m doing you a favor.”

“Ever hear of a bakery, kid?”

“…Are you actually suggesting I would spend my hard-earned money on you?”

Yep. This is definitely a pattern. A pattern of late-night chats and snarking at each other. It’s a marvelous time.

***

Barry Allen, much to the bewilderment of every guard he passed between entering and exiting the facility, came by earlier to drop off a package for Leonard Snart. The guards poured over every inch of it – the box, its contents, and so on – but ultimately couldn’t find a single bit of questionable paraphernalia. No doubt it pained them greatly to present their least-favorite inmate with a box filled with books.

That’s it. Just books.

“What are you and my sister doing these days, kid?” Snart doesn’t even look up from his copy of ‘The Stranger’ when the air ripples around him and Barry yanks his cowl back with an audible sigh of relief, “Going through my childhood reading material?”

“I find it hard to believe even you were reading Albert Campus at age seven.” Barry drops into his established position on the floor, this time under the window, “And for the record, I just asked if she thought a couple – a _couple_ – of books would help you pass the time. Lisa is the one who showed up at my apartment after I’m pretty sure she pillaged the entire used bookstore on Twelfth and Main.”

“And paid good money for them, no doubt.”

Barry doesn’t even dignify that with a response. “So…I take it you had to spill the beans to her?” Snart flicks a finger to turn the page, “Can’t imagine anything else would have satisfied her curiosity.”

“Yeah, yeah…she knows. I’m just gonna bank on the assumption that Rory will know by the end of the week.”

“Need any help digging that hole you’re in?” another page turned.

“Doing fine, thanks.” Barry peeks into the box and skims over some of the titles (Lisa delivered the box taped up in such a fashion that he didn’t even try to take a look beforehand), “Might let you use the gun to seal it over with ice, in case I get any ideas about trying to escape.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

***

If there was any question about this being an established pattern – which, for the record, there wasn’t – it is quickly addressed when Barry skids inside the cell and is met with a pronounced look of disapproval over the pages of H.G. Wells.

“That’s a full week’s worth you’ve missed.”

“Apologies, Your Majesty,” Barry rolls his eyes, “it’s been a productive few days in the real world.”

“Speaking of productivity,” Snart bookmarks his page, sets the book aside, and pulls out a newspaper – yesterday’s paper, actually – to hold it up with a flourish, “perhaps you might care to elaborate on this headline?”

**GOLDEN GLIDER TO GOLDEN GIRL: Flash receives help from unlikely source during apartment blaze.**

“She stopped by the lab to surprise Cisco with some shirt she found in Coast City,” Barry rattles off the explanation, high and determined to not squirm at the look he’s getting right now, “and the call came in while she was still there. _She_ offered – I had no other part of it beyond saying she was a grown woman and it’s her own business if she wants to wear a white hat once in a while.”

If looks could kill, Barry would be a set of withered remains on the floor. “Give me a break, Snart,” Barry huffs, arms draped loose across his chest, “kids were involved. And so was your gun, by the way.”

“…You stole my gun out of police evidence, just for this?”

“Your sister stole your gun out of police evidence two days after you were tossed in here. She said she’s always wanted to try it out but never had a chance, and I figured an apartment fire was as good a time as any to have a go.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Enjoying a little team-up with your sister that resulted in two dozen lives saved, or enjoying you putting my ass in a sling for it?”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Scarlet.” Apparently done with the conversation (at least for now), Snart leans back against the wall, legs neatly folded at the front, and retrieves his book at the earmarked page, “There are far more productive things I could be doing with that ass.”

…Jerk.

***

“Well, Cisco finally took the plunge.” Barry pops a crick in his neck and plops on the floor, a respectable distance away from where Snart is working through the evening exercise routine, “He and Lisa have a date tomorrow night.”

“Casual or formal?”

“Middle-ground – _Rosa’s Italian Bistro_ over on Park and Tenth.” The place is known to be a step above denim and t-shirt appropriate, but one would still be overdressed in a suit or fancy heels. They make good money off Barry every month, with breadsticks to die for and a triple-chocolate delicacy that’s a heart attack waiting to happen.

“He picking her up?”

“He’s getting the car detailed first thing in the morning.”

“Flowers?”

“Red rose bouquet already ordered for pick-up.”

“And he’s picking up the tab?”

“Probably at the expense of half his rent and his food budget for next month, but yes.”

“And exactly what are his intentions for the evening?”

“To survive an evening in public without your sister jumping his bones.” Barry rolls his eyes but can’t quite stamp out the amusement in his voice, “Did I miss anything on the ‘Application to Date Lisa Snart’?”

“Yes.” Snart pauses to take a breath and a long drink from a plastic water bottle that Barry knows was pilfered from somewhere but can’t be bothered to thoroughly investigate right now (or anytime in the near future), “She has an eleven o’clock curfew. No exceptions.”

“Hang on,” he fishes his phone out of his belt, punches out a quick text, then sticks the phone back in place, “okay. Cisco has been informed of the curfew. Satisfied?”

“Close enough.” Snart tucks the bottle under his mattress, neatly out of sight, then gets back to planks and push-ups.

***

Barry is hip-deep in a backlog of cold case files when Joe raps sharply on the lab door. “Need to borrow you in the field.”

“What’s up?” Barry makes a point to carefully mark his place in the Marquez file, along with a small post-it note about where he was in the process of cleaning up another example of poor file upkeep from the 1970s.

“Riot at Iron Heights.” Joe says it so matter-of-factly while Barry’s heart plummets straight out of his chest, “Got a few guards banged up pretty bad – couple in the hospital – and one casualty.”

“A guard?”

Joe shakes his head, jaw tightening as he answers, “Inmate.”

Barry grabs his kit in under two seconds and prays Joe doesn’t notice the way his entire body is shaking – not vibrating, not quivering with excitement, but _shaking_. His heart is hammering so loud that any hope of Joe not noticing begins to wither, because when they’re in the car with less than three feet between them, there is simply no way Joe _can’t_ hear it. A cold sweat has already broken out across his forehead and his mouth feels dry.

“Barr? You okay?” yep – suspicion confirmed. Joe’s noticed.

“Not really.” Barry already knows he can’t lie his way out of a paper bag; no point in trying to fudge it now.

“Look, I know you’re nervous about going to Iron Heights,” Joe says, and Barry’s heart effectively stops beating until his adoptive father continues with, “but you’ll be perfectly safe. We won’t let you be alone with any of the inmates.”

Oh. _Oh._ That’s what Joe thinks is bothering him. “Thanks.” He manages weakly, then clears his throat and forces out, “Do we know who the inmate is? The one who was killed?”

“Not yet.” Joe shakes his head, and Barry feels his stomach sink into the abyss. Damn it. _Damn_ it. It can’t be Snart. Absolutely not…the man is too stubborn to let himself go out in a prison riot. That has to be up there on the list of worst ways to possibly die. Snart would break himself out of the prison and crawl to a nearby field to breathe his last – just so he doesn’t have to meet his Maker with the knowledge that he died _in prison_.

It doesn’t stop Barry’s hands from shaking, to the point that he looks like a colossal nerd when they walk up the secured entrance at Iron Heights with both hands tightly clenched around his kit in the front. He looks like a kid on their first day of kindergarten.

It isn’t common practice for him to collect evidence from the living, but with pending charges for attempted murder and aggravated assault hanging over the guilty parties, every little detail is important. Barry is shown to the infirmary and finds four guards awaiting him, all with varying degrees of damage on their person: everything from severely bruised eyes to broken ribs. The worst of them can’t even sit up to be processed: the shiv punctured a lung and he’s set for transport to the hospital as soon as Barry finishes here.

“CSI, huh?” a guard sitting on the closest bed, bandages covering his upper half and a nasty cut across his brow showing signs of fresh stitching, “Aren’t you a little young for that?”

Barry rolls his eyes but never gets the chance to answer. From a bed on the other side of a drawn curtain, a familiar drawl answers for him with a snarky, “You know you’re only the hundredth person to tell him that, right, Peterson?”

Barry snaps upright so hard his spine audibly cracks, all while Peterson scowls at the curtain, “Shut up, Snart. One good deed doesn’t wipe your record clean.”

“Obviously doesn’t get me any brownie points either.”

The whole exchange has Barry’s brain racing with questions that need answers, so he goes through the remaining guards much faster than anyone was expecting. It’s dangerously close to giving himself away, but an awkward grin and shy little comment about having mad skills (Joe’s aversion to that word choice be damned) gets him off the hook.

“Hey,” he steps over to the doctor, a middle-aged gentleman with kind eyes and facial hair that reminds Barry of Santa Claus, “mind if I check Snart out too? Sounds like he was involved.”

“More than he’s being given credit for.” Barry already appreciates this man speaking in a low voice, like he doesn’t trust the officers to not overhear and make brash judgement, “Sanders – that poor fellow who was shanked? – Mister Snart essentially kept him alive until reinforcements arrived – with great injury to himself when the other inmates saw an opportunity to, shall we say, get their hits in. No question about it: Mrs. Sanders would be a widow tonight if not for it.”

Barry swallows back the grin threatening to stretch his mouth, “I won’t be long.”

“Take your time. I’ll be in the supply room – need to stock up after all this.”

Whether the doctor actually needs to stock up or he’s unfairly perceptive to the way Barry is essentially begging to be left alone with Snart, it ultimately doesn’t matter. He steps around the corner, keeping the curtain in place, and quietly clears his throat. “So…”

“One. Word.” Snart holds up his hand, giving Barry a chilly glare – which, considering how bruised he is along the left side of his face and his right knuckles are split wide open, is rather impressive, “And I will suture your lips shut.”

“I’m just saying…”

“Don’t.” between the glare and the general proximity to leftover stitching materials, Barry decides the threat might be valid and lets it drop for the moment. “Do your thing, shut up while you’re doing it, and move on.”

“Unfortunately, I’m gonna need to talk while I’m ‘doing my thing’.” Barry sits down on the mattress edge and carefully peers at the damage to Snart’s hands, “There’s something embedded in there…glass?”

“Plexiglass.” Snart grumbles, and Barry openly cringes to imagine how or why there is plexiglass in the man’s knuckles, “Guards take priority, so the good doctor hasn’t had a chance to—”

“I got it. Hold still.” Barry grips the man’s wrist in one hand, ignoring the look he gets for it, and retrieves the tweezers from his kit, “Not like this really needs to be said, but this is gonna hurt.”

“Make it fast.” Snart grits out, obviously in more pain than he’s willing to let on with a bigger audience, and Barry again has to snuff out any little flicker of hope that they’re making headway, “There’s no one else here…just hurry up and do it.”

The message couldn’t be any clearer, so Barry just nods and adds a short, “Keep an eye on the door,” before reaching for the Speed Force and getting to work. It doesn’t make it painless, but he’s confident saying it hurts a heck of a lot less than well-practiced but decidedly human hands doing the job instead.

He makes a point to clean up the small piles of bloodied gauze and thoroughly disinfect the stitching needle, then drops back on the bed. Snart has yet to kick him off, which is a minor victory in itself. “So…what the hell happened?”

“Same thing that always happens.” Snart leans back against the wall with a heavy sigh. The man refused one drop of Aspirin or painkiller before Barry started to play nurse, so his body is probably shutting down from sheer exhaustion, “Handful of idiots in gen pop decided to play Mad Max. Certain people got riled up. They ambushed a few guards, started opening cells at random. You’re lucky the metahuman wing is currently at population Yours Truly, or you’d have a bigger problem on your hands.”

Understatement of the year. “And Sanders…?”

“I don’t like cops. I like prison guards even less.” Snart’s eyes are closed now and he looks like he’s trying to even out his breathing, “Doesn’t mean I’m going to let some kid bleed out on the floor two years after he and the wife said their vows.”

“…how do you know about that?”

“The rookies always talk the most. Share personal details, trying to set up rapport.” He twitches when Barry starts dabbing a little ointment on the knuckles, and again when he starts applying a protective layer of bandages, “He’ll probably grow out of it in a year or so.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure.” Barry shifts higher on the bed, again ignoring Snart’s annoyed grimace, and begins applying the same ointment to the bruises, “He doesn’t know any better, so he probably thinks sharing those personal details prompted you to save his life. Can’t expect him to know that you’re a self-righteous ass who prefers bad puns over human emotions.”

“You do realize I am _not_ above turning you over my knee, right?”

“Reality check, _Leonard_ ,” because at this point Barry feels he has earned the right to even the playing field with first-name rights, “without your gun, all you’ve got is your snark and bad attitude to go up against me.”

“Brat.”

“Pot,” Barry presses a couple small bandages over a handful of minor scrapes along the lower jaw, “Kettle. Black.”

***

Three days after the prison riot, Lisa stops by S.T.A.R. Labs with brownies and cupcakes – personally baked, she makes a point to add with a satisfied grin – and plants a warm kiss on Barry’s cheek before he can even inquire as to the occasion.

“Lenny’s healing up in record time.” She beams at him, possibly the most genuine she’s ever smiled as long as he’s known her, “Thank you. I know he’s a terrible patient.”

He is, but there’s no real need for Barry to make further comment to that end. Instead, he helps himself to a brownie and immediately falls in love. “When did you start baking?”

“Helps relieve the boredom.” She shrugs and perches at the desk edge, toying with Cisco’s little collection of pens and lollipops before selecting a root-beer-flavored option, “I had planned to get Lenny out sooner, but after the riot…”

“Security is beefed up.” Barry nods, with more sympathy than is strictly appropriate, “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, suckling at the treat, “Patience is a virtue, after all.”

He licks his fingers clean of cupcake frosting – buttercream frosting, to be exact…there might not be any leftover by the time Cisco and Caitlin get in this morning – and tosses the empty wrapper in the trash bin. “…I tried to get the D.A. to drop it.” Barry says softly, though not so much that Lisa doesn’t look at him with a curious tilt to her head, “It just…the justice system didn’t do a damn thing when you and your brother needed it most, but Lewis puts a bomb in your neck, blackmails Leonard to steal a bunch of expensive rocks, and it’s suddenly a public outcry because Lewis is dead? That’s just crap.”

“We’re used to life not going our way, Barry.” Her foot playfully nudges his leg. She keeps her tone so calm, so casual, just like her brother, and there can be no question as to the truth of her words: she’s used to it. They’re both used to it.

The unfairness makes Barry want to scream.

“Had you known Lenny was going to kill him,” Lisa says after a thoughtful pause, “…would you have stopped him?”

“No.” he doesn’t even need to think about it, no hesitation to the answer, and his stomach flip-flops a little when Lisa responds not in words but with the quiet laying of her head on his shoulder.

***

“ _Barry_ ,” Snart—Leonard grits out, in such a way that Barry is ninety-nine percent sure means the man has been waiting to fire off his name like that for hours, “this has got to stop.”

The evening newspaper is on the bed again, and Barry glances down to see the front-page headline in bold print:

**GOLD-STAR TEAM UP IN CENTRAL: Flash and Glider foil bank heist – hostages unharmed.**

“What am I supposed to do? Tell her no?” Barry drops on the far edge of the mattress, makes a little face at how incredibly uncomfortable these things are, and continues, “She’s as stubborn as you are, okay? Every time I make half a comment about it being dangerous, she points the gun at me and asks if I need any teeth crowned. Also – may I remind you,” he adds, with a pointed flourish at the older man’s irritated glare, “you _did_ tell me to keep an eye on her.”

“Keeping an eye on her and turning her into front-page hero news are two very different things.”

“She enjoys racking up points with Cisco.” Barry rolls his eyes, “There’re only so many different ways I can argue the point before I have to wave a white flag and be done with it. Besides…I’m a little offended that your tone suggests I would let anything happen to her in the field.”

Leonard looks like he would love to argue that point but can’t, so instead he switches topics, “She needs to keep an eye on Mick.”

“Oh…right.” Barry clears his throat, scratching lightly at his cheek, “Mick is…um…he’s fine.”

“…he’s fine.”

“Mm hm.”

“And you know this how?”

“Lisa brings him around. Like, every week. Calls it a play date, which I’m pretty sure is a cute way of saying she’s trying to shove him and Caitlin together. Square peg, round hole – you know?”

_That_ cracks a broad smirk across Leonard’s face. The bruises have healed nicely in eight days, “…You don’t say.”

“Mm hm.”

“Shall we book the chapel?” the smirk, if possible, is only getting wider until Barry has minor concerns about the man’s face freezing in that expression. He’s not sure it would be a good look – though, perhaps, it would certainly be a natural one.

“If Mick doesn’t stop dropping comments about Caitlin’s ass, you’re gonna need to book the mortuary.” Barry feels a flutter in his chest when, in place of a smirk, he earns a soft but still audible chuckle. He makes a point to catalog that sound, file it carefully away, for the next time he’s having a bad day – because for all else this man is, he does have a very nice laugh.

***

“Lisa made a point to tell me that Caitlin finally agreed to a date with Mick.” Leonard is back to his evening exercise routine, after over two weeks of Barry insisting on bedrest, “I’m comfortable assuming there was more to that story.”

Barry rolls his eyes and plops on the mattress; in addition to being on first-name basis, he’s gotten comfortable with a seat on the edge of Leonard’s bed, rather than the cold concrete floor. “It was hardly a ‘date’.” He watches a drop of sweat roll down the man’s defined shoulders before realizing that he’s staring, much too intently, and refocuses on the wall, “Mick had a few too many at some hole-in-the-wall, got in a brawl, and Lisa dragged him to the lab for a patch-up job.”

“So that’s the idea of a first date?” Leonard sounds extremely amused, even if Barry’s can’t see his face right now, “The med bay, a morphine drip, and thou?”

“Pretty much. I think Caitlin went home and crawled into a bottle of Tequila just to wipe out the memory of what Mick said to her.”

“Remind me to send her a fruit basket and an apology note.” Leonard drops from the upper ledge, the thin slot of metal he’s been using for pull-ups, and wipes the sweat from his face with a small wad of cheap toilet paper. “Mick’s already a handful. Get him drunk and high, he can either charm his way up half a dozen skirts or get punched in the face.”

“What about you?” Barry leans into the wall with an easy grin, “How many skirts can you charm your way into?”

The smirk he gets in return should be deemed a class one felony. “Jealous?”

The _correct_ answer would have been to roll his eyes, make a quip about how he has no intention of flattering Leonard’s ego, and move to a mundane topic like the weather or if Leonard has read any good books lately.

What comes out instead is, “Just trying to figure out the competition.”

The smirk fades, but the way blue eyes hone-in on Barry and deliver a smoldering look that he feels right between the legs is ten-times worse. “And if there isn’t any?”

The _correct_ answer would be to shrug the question off, make it half a joke, and announce that he has a long day tomorrow and really should be getting home.

What comes out instead is, in a breathless tone Barry will otherwise deny, “Then I wouldn’t have to be jealous…would I?”

“No.” Leonard tips another pilfered water bottle down his throat, and there’s no coming back from the way Barry watches his throat contract around the rush of liquid, “You certainly would not.”

***

Lisa ropes Cisco, Caitlin, and Mick into a ‘double date’ at a cute little diner outside downtown. Barry makes his excuses to Cisco and Caitlin – he has a lot of reports to catch up on at the precinct – and tells Lisa to behave herself. And make sure Mick behaves. By the standards of a reasonable and law-abiding citizen, _not_ her own.

“Give Lenny a kiss for me.” she chirps, delivering a pink-tinted peck right on Barry’s cheek. He honestly isn’t sure if Lisa is just being cheeky or is more perceptive than he gives her credit for. Neither option, he’s sure, bodes well for him.

There is no backlog, obviously, but if it saves him from being the fifth wheel then Barry doesn’t feel guilty about a little white lie.

He zips into Leonard’s cell, right on schedule, and promptly swallows his tongue.

“Hi, Barry.” Leonard greets with perfect casual tone, not acting in the slightest like he’s standing in nothing but his prison-issue boxers and still dripping wet from a shower, “No better plans tonight?”

Plans? Oh, there are plans. Barry has way too many plans for the situation he just walked into.

“Obviously not.” He can’t even muster up a decent little bit of sass, not when his voice comes out a breathless creak that is simply mortifying to hear. There’s no mirror in the cell, but between the heat crawling up his face and the smirk Leonard is providing free of charge, Barry can only guess at how red his face is right now.

“Red really is your color, kid.” Leonard’s smirk only widens, and Barry briefly fantasizes about throwing himself out the window.

“Glad you approve.” Okay…that’s a little better. Not great, but a little.

“More than you know.”

…Well, so much for that tidbit of success. Mirror or no mirror, Barry is quite aware that he has all the dignity right now of a tomato-faced schoolboy holding up a handful of dandelions to the pretty girl who sits next to him in class. With this in mind, the correct answer would be to shrug it off and redirect attention to the wall.

For being acutely aware of what the correct answer is in these situations, it’s quite impressive that Barry has yet to utilize a single one.

“Maybe you should do something about it.”

Leonard pauses in pulling a white t-shirt over his head, then finishes the task with eyes unblinking and locked on Barry’s face. Barry determinedly keeps his eyes at the chest-level, while being acutely aware that the man has yet to put on pants.

“Maybe one of these days, I will.”

***

“Ho, ho, ho.”

In hindsight, Barry really should have assumed that Mardon wouldn’t go to all the trouble of breaking Leonard out of Iron Heights just to kill him, but the Wizard is unpredictable at best and Barry has simply learned to not put anything past his enemies. And, after spending almost six hours worrying himself sick and having to keep his inner dilemma tightly under wraps in front of Joe and Iris and everyone else in the goddamn known universe, seeing Leonard comfortably seated by the fire, reindeer mug full of pilfered hot chocolate and looking entirely put-together in his stupid parka and the gun securely mounted at his thigh, makes Barry want to break something.

Starting with that smug smirk.

“Iris,” Barry says, keeping his voice as calm as humanly possible, “go upstairs.”

“What? No! I’m not leaving you alone with—”

“ _Upstairs_. Now.” Careful…his voice almost cracked on that one.

He can feel her dark eyes glaring at him with no drop of understanding. “I’m calling Dad.” Iris announces, and Barry swallows back a groan. Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she?

The second her footsteps fade into the upper level, Barry is across the room and both arms have Leonard locked into the upholstery.

“You JERK!!” Barry explodes, barely remembering to keep his voice below the frustrated scream he wants to release, “Do you have _any_ idea how worried I was? And you break into Joe’s house? A cop’s house? What is WRONG with you?!”

“Barry,” Leonard can’t even be bothered to look concerned for his own wellbeing, despite how obvious Barry knows his aggravation is right now, “are you getting attached?”

“I’m about to attach my fist to that infernal smirk of yours, Leonard!” he growls, gripping the upholstery right beside the man’s head just to prove the point, “Now what are you doing here??”

“Got the Noel spirit. Thought I’d give you a gift.”

“What? That Jesse and Mardon are planning to do me in before New Year’s? I could have guessed that.” Barry’s throat contracts around a tight swallow, “…If they find out you’re here…that you warned me—”

“I can handle them.” Gloved fingers caress the cold gun – and there is no way that gesture wasn’t intentional, not with the way Leonard holds Barry’s eyes the entire time, blue eyes smoldering just like the last time he was visited in Iron Heights. It almost – and comes dangerously close to – breaks Barry right then and there. Those eyes are boring into his, the heat offered by the man’s body achingly close, and that mouth—

“You have to go.” Barry hears his voice crack, this time with a sense of despair that doesn’t fit the situation, “Joe will arrest you on the spot, and I know he has to be on his way. So…please. Just go. I can’t…”

He drops his head, unable to maintain eye contact any longer, and manages a weak whisper of, “I can’t see you locked in that place again.”

The cool leather fitted to Leonard’s hands brushes a long touch across Barry’s jaw, then three fingers catch his chin and redirect upward. Barry doesn’t have the energy to fight it.

“Use your brain.” Leonard says very quietly, “Not just your speed. Got it?”

The man is hardly the first to deliver a version of the same instruction, but this time Barry thinks he might be listening. “Got it.”

Leonard nods and stands in one smooth motion, forcing Barry to take several steps backward – lest he crash gracelessly into Leonard’s chest and henceforth be unaccountable for his actions. The man adjusts his parka with one gesture, the cold gun with another, and calmly strides towards the front door. Leave it to Leonard Snart to walk out the front door of the cop’s house he illegally entered. Jesus Christ.

“Merry Christmas, Barry.”

***

Christmas is in full swing. Crisis has been averted, and the streets are as brightly lit as ever before – as though the entire holiday was not put in peril a few hours ago. At the West house, the decorations are hung, the egg nog is poured, and the music burbles cheerfully into the air. Everyone invited is present to join the festivities…except one.

“You think you broke anything?”

Across town, in a district as far as it can get from the humble suburb that houses his adopted father’s residence, Barry sits on an old work bench inside a long-abandoned storage factory which has since been converted (as many others like it have also been) into a livable space. Though praised on the evening news as salvation of the holiday, Barry feels and looks nothing like his heroic depiction on the television screen: his shoulders are sagged low, his head hangs even lower, and the bruises littering his body create a portrait of defeat.

The bruising around his upper thigh, where a metallic clamp rendered him nearly immobile hours earlier, is the worst: dark purple, almost black in some areas, and painfully sensitive to the touch.

_Police sirens wail loudly in the distance, drawing closer. Civilians are chattering loud, much too loudly, in the immediate surrounding area. He can count the seconds by his heartbeat – hammering uneasily inside his chest. Every inch hurts, to the point that Barry silently marvels that he managed to crawl as little a distance as he did with one leg virtually useless._

_That being said, the minor victory is dampened by the complete lack of dignity found in crawling half-dead behind a dumpster. Classy._

_A pair of dark boots come into view first, then equally dark pants, and finally the dark blue hem of a parka. Relief – misplaced though it may be – floods Barry’s system long before he feels Leonard’s hand settle at his shoulder and the man’s voice urges movement._

_Safe, his mind whispers tenderly, **safe**_.

“Hey,” outside the gloves, Leonard’s fingers are cold; Barry shivers when the fingers of one hand tip his chin up. Leonard’s eyes are sharp, alert, calculating. Barry can only imagine how deadened and hollow his are by comparison, “Answer me.”

“I don’t know.”

Leonard sighs and puts the first aid kit aside with a single gesture. The trash bin pulled up beside the work bench is filled with used antiseptic wipes and cotton balls. By now all the damage that visibly remains is bruising, and there’s nothing to be done for it. Three hours ago, when Leonard took full advantage of the commotion around Mardon and Jesse’s recapture and half-carried Barry’s battered form onto his bike, there was a healthy multitude of cuts, fresh and bleeding, to accompany the then-blossoming bruises.

“Even you would know if you broke a bone, kid.” Leonard points out, “Like that time you hit a patch of ice mid-sprint and took your shoulder out at sixty miles an hour.”

“Which you didn’t even apologize for, you jerk.” Barry grumbles, a little bit of his usual spirit poking its way to the surface, “If I recall correctly, you made a point to step over me while heading out the door.”

“Guilty.”

“So why the show of caring now?”

Fingers catch his chin again before Barry can fully turn his head away, and he finds himself face to face with those blue eyes in a piercing stare once more, “Cut the crap, Barry. That isn’t going to fly right now and you know it.”

A single tear drips down his cheek, all sense of bravado and anger gone with a single touch. “…She was ready for me, Leonard.” Barry whispers, emotion thick in his throat, “Patty...she brought that thing with her…and she didn’t even hesitate. I was…helpless.”

He would have every right to remind Leonard that he did the same, the first time the cold gun was nestled within his grasp and Leonard Snart officially earned his moniker in that theater lobby. He doesn’t, and Barry can see the look in blue eyes which clearly questions just _why_ Barry isn’t handing out due judgment.

There isn’t a good answer. Barry drops his eyes again, head feeling very heavy and tired.

“Barry,” the fingers on his chin backtrack along one side of his jaw: an exploratory touch that sends tiny tremors along his exhausted limbs, “look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m tired, Leonard…” he hates how broken he sounds, how broken he _feels_ , and hates even more just how much power he’s handed over to this man in such a short amount of time; Leonard Snart doesn’t need his cold gun to break Barry Allen, as himself or as the Flash, and it all amounts to a feeling of complete helplessness that leaves Barry ready to just erupt at the seams with no hope of repair, “I’m so…so tired…”

“Barry,” _no, no, no…_ why does he have to speak so gently now? Why is he gentle _now_ , when Barry is weak and vulnerable and raw and can’t defend himself? “You need to remember how tough you are, kid. How you bounce back more times than people give you credit for, considering all the crap you’ve trudged through in your life. You need to remember that now, okay?”

Another tear drips down his cheek. Then another. And another. “…Why did you bring me here?” Barry whispers, staring at a random spot on the floor, as far away from Leonard’s shape as possible – no small feat, considering that the man almost entirely consumes his front vision, “Why…why didn’t you just leave me there?”

“I don’t know.” Leonard’s fingers are long, slender, graceful, and Barry is acutely aware of every detail as the touch drags back into his hair, still dampened by sweat, before cupping the back of his head, “But unlike some people, I don’t let the unknowns matter too much.”

“…Leonard,” god, he is just _so_ tired… “If you’re going to do something…just do it. Whatever it is, just…please. Get it over with. I…I can’t pretend anymore.”

“Shhh…” it really is just unfair how easily this man – dangerous, calculating, predatory in so many ways – draws him in, makes promises with a single touch, and siphons what little strength lingered in Barry’s bones before this excruciatingly beautiful moment, “Come to me, Barry. Come here to me.”

There is very little graceful about the way he slumps into Leonard’s chest: broad muscle, warm skin, solid bone, all covered by soft black fabric. Even so, the gesture feels more intimate than all the moments that came before it – intentional, accidental, or otherwise. Here, he listens to the pounding beat deep inside, feels its rhythm against his ear as acutely as he feels cool fingers weave deeply into his hair.

He's crying again.

“…I’m cold.”

He feels the rumble of Leonard’s chuckle as much as he hears it, “You’re sitting in a storage facility, bruised nine ways to Sunday, working off an adrenaline crash in nothing but your underwear. Of course you’re cold, kid.”

That little detail probably shouldn’t have been so easy to forget. Ignoring better judgment, fueled by the desperation to just get warm, Barry pushes both hands under Leonard’s sweater and burrows himself impossibly close. Under the black material there is only bare skin, and Barry shivers a little at the intimacy of his fingers blindly mapping out a plethora of scars.

The older man goes entirely rigid, but he doesn’t shove Barry away or yank his arms out from under the sweater. Minor victories are still victories, and each one adds up a little more every time.

“Barry…” Leonard’s breath catches as a vibration stutters across his skin from Barry’s fingers.

“Sorry.” Barry doesn’t entirely have the energy to be embarrassed, but the remorse in his voice is sincere, “I…I can’t help it.”

“It’s okay.” Leonard’s voice is low and filled with bitterness, and Barry knows it has nothing to do with the fact that Barry vibrates, or that his hands are vibrating right now; rather, it has everything to do with the man associating said vibrations – a response from fear, or worse yet, disgust – with contact with his scarred body. “I know. I get it.”

“Do you?” Barry whispers into his shoulder, mapping out a series of cigarette burns between the shoulder blades, “Do you really know how beautiful you are?”

Silence, but Barry hears Leonard’s heartbeat break its steady rhythm, and his muscles contract with a sharp breath as Barry drags a loving caress over a little concave near the ribcage – probably a bullet wound. “Scarlet…”

“Let me in.” his right index traces the unmistakable jagged ridge of a beer bottle’s broken edge, stretching nearly five inches across the lower back, “Just let me in. Let me love you, Leonard, and I’ll show you what I see.”

“I’m not good for you, Barry.”

“Probably not.” For the first time in the last few hours, Barry lets himself smile, “But after weeks of breaking into your cell, talking for hours about stupid stuff and life and how I’m corrupting your sister into a pillar of the community, pretending I don’t feel a ridiculous number of things for you when in fact I absolutely do, you going out of your way to warn me about Mardon and Jesse, and now being carried from a crime scene just so you can take care of me…It’s kinda hard to believe you aren’t a little good for me. That there’s a part of you that wants to be good for me. And, maybe…if you let me…I could be good for you.”

The silence is almost worse than an immediate reaction – even if it was Leonard abruptly shoving him to the floor and telling him to get out. Part of him is waiting for it, for the clear indication that he just pushes his luck too far. Instead, the fingers in his hair tighten, nowhere near the point of pain, and tip Barry’s head back. He has two seconds to get his bearings, to catch a fleeting glimpse of blue eyes staring hard at him with more emotion than he’s ever shown before, and then Leonard’s mouth locks over his. The kiss is hard, not violent, but it’s the flooding channel of emotion that breaks Barry entirely. His fingers find purchase in the hard ridges of the older man’s back and shoulders, skin and muscle flexing under the hold, while he just lets himself drown.

***

It’s late. The sky, visible through the surprisingly large windows, is velvet-black with smears of royal blue and dark purple. In the distance, the shimmering displays of Christmas lights can be glimpsed, and weak strains of music playing much too long into the night can be heard if one listens hard enough.

For Barry, the only sound he really hears is the rhythmic sound of breathing in the bed next to him: slow, calm, steady.

“You ever planning on getting to sleep?” the tone of voice clearly communicates that Leonard – _“Len,” a warm mouth speaks the words into his throat, “Call me Len,”_ – is wide awake despite the silence which has remained unbroken for hours.

“Eventually.” Barry whispers into the darkness; there’s a little stream of light which highlights sections of the other man’s silhouette, and Barry watches the lazy movement of Len rolling to the side, now facing him with just enough space between them that Barry feel almost feel the heat of his breath fanning over the skin, “Not yet.”

“Your leg bothering you?”

“No. It’ll be healed by morning.” Barry lets his hand wander across the covers – soft, incredibly indulgent, and no doubt lifted from some high-end store downtown – until fingers find Len’s hand resting on the covers near a pillow. Len doesn’t try to pull his hand away, but just quietly sighs as Barry entwines their fingers atop the sheets.

“You planning to leave, then?”

“…Do you want me to leave?”

The answering pause lodges Barry’s heart in his throat until he can’t breathe properly. Then Len’s fingers close tightly around his, and Barry feels himself exhale more than he hears it.

“No.” he sounds conflicted, but not reluctant. Barry is willing to work with whatever he’s given. One day at a time.

“There’s your answer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love, as always. Thanks, everyone! :)


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